


For Emergency Cases Only

by PlaidIsTheBestPattern



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Dean Winchester Deserves Nice Things, Dean Winchester has food issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Flashbacks, Food Issues, Gen, Good Sibling Sam Winchester, Hiding Food, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Post-Episode: s13e19 Funeralia, Sam POV, Stressed Dean Winchester, Supportive Sam Winchester, food hoarding, to weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 11:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19272538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaidIsTheBestPattern/pseuds/PlaidIsTheBestPattern
Summary: “I’m especially fond of Sam’s impressive… extensive array of hair products,” The reaper noted teasingly. "Not to mention the three-day old bacon cheeseburger in your room,” She said, turning to Dean.___________Sometimes, when Dean gets stressed, he hides food.Sam tries to help.





	For Emergency Cases Only

_“I’m especially fond of Sam’s impressive… extensive array of hair products,” The reaper noted teasingly. "Not to mention the three-day old bacon cheeseburger in your room,” She said, turning to Dean, “Or the VHS tape hidden under your bed labeled, 'Sweet Princess Asuka Meets the Tentacles of Plea—'“_

_“Okay, alright, alright! That’s not cool, kay?” Dean interrupted. "That’s—first of all, that’s a classic. Secondly, the burger’s for emergency cases only.”_

_“Dude, gross.”_

 

* * *

Sam’s eyes open. He stares at the ceiling in his room, stuck between sleep and wakefulness. For a moment he can’t decide if the dream is just a dream, or if it’s a memory.

Then the ability to distinguish comes back to him.

Dread fills him, starting in his chest which aches suddenly. Then permeating through his limbs.

“Fuck,” He suddenly pronounces to the dark room.

He turns over onto his side to grab his phone, and sees it’s about 3:00AM. 

_“Fuck,”_ He repeats.

Sam sighs, eyes squeezing tight shut as he runs his hand up through his hair. For a moment, he considers going back to sleep. 

He could just… go right back to bed… _Deal with this in the morning,_ he tries to tell himself.

Even as he thinks it though, he knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep.

He starts climbing out of bed, moaning as his back creaks and his muscles protest. He’s tired from running around all day after Rowena, and letting himself get kidnapped like a dumbass. He’s sure Dean must be hurting even worse, from fighting that huge goon Rowena had under her thumb.

Sam opens the door to his room and listens for a moment. He doesn’t hear anything, and Dean isn’t exactly quiet when putzing around in the bunker. So he’s assuming that his brother is asleep... like Sam would be if he hadn’t just remembered the conversation he and Dean had had earlier with Jessica, their reaper "baby monitor."

Sam makes his way slowly down the hall and to the kitchen, being especially quiet as he passes Dean’s room. He can hear a soft snore on the other side of the door and relaxes a bit. If Dean is actually snoring, he's not likely to wake up on a hair-trigger and catch Sam.

The younger Winchester walks across the dark library in a half-awake state, eyes only vaguely open. He pays for it, swearing, when he stubs his toe against a chair that either he or Dean forgot to push back against the table last night. He walks it off though, tripping into the kitchen and turning on the light. He squints against the sudden brightness and makes his way to the pantry.

Normally when Sam opens the cupboard, he’ll find peanut butter—crunchy _and_ smooth, since he and Dean have different opinions on the variety _“Everybody knows smooth peanut butter is better, bitch.” “Shut up, Jerk."_  Then he’ll find a sleeve of wheat bread, hamburger buns, a few cans of beans that Dean uses for the odd batch of chili, and a couple packages of chips and honey buns that he always chastises Dean for buying:  _“You’re thirty-fucking-nine, Dean. You can’t just eat shit all the time anymore, you know."_

When he opens the pantry this time, five packages of sandwich bread tumble down onto his face and shoulders. Sam closes his eyes against the soft onslaught, then releases a sigh, this one long and resigned. 

He opens his eyes after a moment, lets the bread stay where it rests on the ground for a little while as he takes in the rest of the pantry.

He sees about what he expected staring back at him. 

The space is absolutely stuffed with food. Canned vegetables and beans and jars of peanut butter and jelly line the the space from back to front, stacked up as high as the shelving will allow. At least 12 _more_ sleeves of bread are stuffed around the spaces the cans can’t fill, bunched up in an effort to fit them inside. 

He goes to the fridge.

Sandwich meat and cheese stuff the drawers to the brim. There are six cartons of eggs inside, and five gallons of milk, four of which will expire within a week, and one that already is expired by four days. Take out bags from the last several restaurants Sam and Dean went to are inside, and Sam recognizes the label from one Chinese take out they went to two weeks ago, nose crinkling.

He sifts through the drawer full of cheese slices and frowns deeply as he sees that the ones in the bottom have mold.

Sam closes the door to the refrigerator and then turns to lean back against it, tucking his chin to his chest.

* * *

_“Jesus fucking Christ, Dean!” Dad yelled, pinching his nose as he aggressively tossed the contents of Dean’s food stash out of the air vent and into the center of the room._

_Dean, about thirteen years old, stood beside their dad’s crouched form with his head bowed in shame._

_Dad removed the last of the mess, turning to look up at his oldest son with a look of pure bewildered irritation. “You can’t keep doing this, Dean. This is the kind of shit that draws bugs and rats! This is one of Bobby’s fucking cabins and he was kind enough to let us stay here… and you return the favor by stinking up his damn house with rotting food? Trying to give him pest issues? Huh?” Dad snatched up a half-eaten Snicker’s bar. “What is this? How old is it? Why the hell didn’t you just finish the whole thing?” He tossed it on the rest of the pile with open disgust, and stared up at Dean some more, looking for something—anything to explain._

_Sam couldn't see Dean’s face from his vantage point—just the pointy knob where neck meets shoulder jutting out with how far down his brother’s head was tucked. Dean didn't say anything in response to their dad’s chastisement, but his arms came up around himself and he seemed to make himself suddenly shrink somehow._

_John stared at him for a moment, hard look softening from whatever he saw on Dean’s face. Dad sighed, rubbing his temples. “Okay, look son… don’t…” Dad’s voice halted for a moment and he pursed his lips, demeanor calming even more when he spoke again. "_ _I don’t know what’s going on with you… but you can’t keep doing this. It’s unhealthy.” Dad picked up a stray package of potato chips and tossed it onto the larger pile. “Go throw it all away. I mean it. Do you understand me?”_

_Dean nodded, unable to manage even a “yessir” in response. Head still down, he started picking up the contents of his air conditioning stash, and turned quickly to walk out of the back door of the cabin, where the trashcan was located._

_Sam stealthily wandered after him, both Dean and their dad unaware that they’d been observed._

_Dean’s back was still turned to him, but Sam could still see the way Dean’s hands shook and his body hesitated as he threw the food away._

* * *

Sam wanders through the main rooms of the bunker. All told, he finds five different bags of chips, two candy bars, one beer, three packages of beef jerky, and (grossly) a sandwich from four days ago, hidden under one of the recliners in the “Dean Cave”. 

More than likely, the bacon cheeseburger isn’t the only thing Dean has stashed in his room for “emergencies."

Sam wanders back to the kitchen table and sits down, staring at the coffee pot. 

 

 

He doesn’t tend to be very observant of the kitchen’s contents. The only meal they almost always eat at the bunker is breakfast, and Sam is more than happy to stare at his laptop finding cases while Dean cooks bacon and eggs on a skillet and makes toast. Dean enjoys making breakfast food and Sam hates cooking, so its’s only natural that their roles shake out this way.

Sam tries to remember the last time he opened the fridge or the pantry. Dean has probably been subtly diverting him from opening either since he stocked up, offering to get him whatever it is he wants instead. He figures Dean’s been hoarding and storing for about a week—ever since he came back from apocalypse world and found out Gabriel and his grace had left the building. But the compulsion not to throw out food even when it’s bad must have started even before that if the take out in the fridge means anything.

Sam drags over his laptop, which is already closed and charging at the table. He opens it and types in “Hiding food.”

* * *

_Six year old Sam sat at the table in the run down duplex they were renting, arms folded tightly as he glared at the mac n’ cheese Dean placed in front of him._

_“Sam…” Dean’s voice sighed shakily where he stood above Sam, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw the way Dean's hand rose to rub across his forehead. “Please. PLEASE. Eat. I’m begging you, Sammy.”_

_Sam knew he should feel bad, because he could sense that Dean wasn’t angry, just stressed and sad. But Sam WAS angry, and he was sick of this food, and he was sick of Dean telling him to eat the food he was sick of day after day, and telling him when to go to bed and brush his teeth and otherwise ordering him around._

_He was absolutely done with it—ALL of it. So instead of looking at Dean—because looking at Dean would make him feel bad—Sam continued glaring at his bowl of Kraft macaroni as he said, “No."_

_Dean sighed._

_There was silence for a long time, and Sam was hoping Dean wouldn't try to push him to eat again—would accept his hunger strike for what it was._

_But then Dean spoke again, voice quiet. “Look, what can I do? We have a hot dog left I could cut up and put inside, or you could eat that by itself?”_

_“No,” Sam said firmly._

_Dean made a frustrated sound. “Sammy, you’re killing me. What about some ketchup?”_

_"No,” Sam said again, still not looking at Dean._

_He felt Dean turn and put his back to Sam, hands going to his hips and breath straining._

_Sam wondered if Dean was going to get mad now._

_“Look,” Dean’s voice sounded broken when he spoke. “Just… what can I do, Sammy? Please. What can I do to get you to eat?”_

_Anger boiled up inside Sam and his jaw clenched._

_“Nothing! You can’t do anything!” He yelled, slamming his hands on the counter as hard as he could, jarring the stupid macaroni bowl and the fork on the table beside it. He stood up, chair flying backward, and looked at Dean, too angry to care about the way Dean flinched. “There’s NOTHING you can do, because no matter what, I’m NOT eating it! I’m sick and tired of macaroni, and I’m sick and tired of YOU! Daddy was supposed to be HOME! He’s supposed to be home now and he’s not, and now this is all we have left and I want him to know! I want him to know I would rather STARVE than eat it ANYMORE!” In a moment of pure rage, eyes stinging, six year old Sam threw the bowl across the room. It landed on the floor, plastic bowl skidding farther than its contents, which splattered onto the ground in a congealed heap of lukewarm fake cheese._

_For a moment, Sam just stared at Dean, eyes fierce and challenging and nostrils flaring intensely._

_Dean wasn't looking back at him. His eyes had followed the bowl where it landed on the floor, more shocked and wide than Sam thought they should be—it was just a bowl of stupid gross food after all. Dean stared at the mac n’ cheese for a long time, and for a moment, Sam was pleased that his action produced Dean’s silence._

_But then Sam noticed his brother’s eyes starting to shine._

_Sam’s anger immediately began to dissolve._

_Dean was big. To Sam, he was big and fierce and brave. He was big enough to be in the fourth grade. And Dean didn't cry a lot. But as Sam watched, Dean started snuffling, and big, fat tears started pouring down his big brother’s cheeks, his breath coming out in upset little huffs._

_All color drained out of Sam’s face and he swallowed. He felt terrible, suddenly—like a big, mean jerk. Like that bully at his last school, named Timmy, who’d punched Sam in the gut. Sam was mad at Dad, but he yelled at Dean and he threw the food to make Dean hurt. It wasn't Dean’s fault, but he’d made Dean sad anyway._

_Sam swallowed nervously. “Dean…” He said, barely above a whisper._

_Dean wiped fiercely at his eyes, but he couldn't stop crying, and that seemed to make him even more upset. His teeth gritted as he became even more angry at his inability to stop, but then with one last look at the food on the floor, the stubbornness seemed to drain out of Dean and he fell to the ground like a rag doll, hands barely catching him, and started to sob._

_He cried big and loud and open—the way that Sam himself only cried rarely… In a way that usually made Dean or Daddy come give Sam a hug and make shushing noises and rub his back._

_Watching Dean cry always made Sam sad, but it also made him scared, especially because he hadn't often seen Dean cry this hard. He found his own eyes brimming with tears of sympathy and regret. “D-Dean…” Sam said voice quiet, “M'sorry… I didn’t mean to-“_

_“Get... out...” Dean sobbed dejectedly at him, face still averted._

_Sam flinched, then inhaled a_ _sob himself. “M’sorry Dean!” He repeated, voice increasing in pitch with his distress. Dean was mad at him. Sam hated it when Dean was mad at him._

_“I said get OUT!” Dean screamed, whirling on him suddenly._

_Sam flinched again and started wailing._

_Dean hated him now. Dean hated him. He thought Sam’s tears were big fat crocodile ones and he was mad at Sam just like Sam was mad at him before—too mad to see what his madness did._

_Dean didn't appear to feel bad that he yelled. "Go to your FUCKING room!” He roared, pointing out of the kitchen and toward the door leading to the room he and Sam were sharing. “Out! GET OUT!"_

_Sam wailed as his little legs carried him, doing as Dean told him. He ran to their room and collapsed on the bed, muffling his cries into the sheets._

_He could hear Dean crying just as loudly from the kitchen—crying in a way Sam had only heard him do twice—the last time because Dean got a big deep cut on his leg, from knee to upper thigh, while he was out with Daddy, and Daddy had to pour whiskey on it (though Sammy hadn’t been sure why) and it burned._

_Sam tried best he could to calm himself down, until he wasn't sobbing anymore and there were just sniffles left._

_He eventually noticed that his ears weren't picking up on Dean crying anymore either._

_And Sam wanted him. Sam wanted Dean… Though he wasn't sure if Dean wanted him yet._

_Sam climbed out of bed and went quietly as he could to the door, cracking it open silently and peering through. Dean wasn't making noises anymore, but Sam didn’t know if that meant Dean was done being upset. Dean could just have been mad now, and maybe that would be worse than him being mad and sad. Sam needed to see what Dean looked like to see if was okay to come out so they could hug and make up like they always did._

_When Sam dropped some of his Skittles on the ground once, Daddy and Dean had both told him that floors are dirty, and you shouldn’t eat food off of them._

_But when Sam looked, he found Dean eating the macaroni off the ground, still sniffling, eyes still streaming tears, as he scooped the stuff up in his hands and stuffed it in his mouth as fast as he could._  

* * *

It wasn’t until a few years ago that Sam remembered Dean scooping up that mac n’ cheese off that floor. 

Kids forget things, because they don’t understand their significance. And sometimes those memories don’t resurface until an adult, one sees patterns in the memories and realize they have more meaning than younger selves understood. More than that, sometimes memories look very different through the lense of childhood versus adulthood. 

When Sam thinks of his childhood, he finds that he often still processes it as his childhood self, instead of realizing the adult implications. He’s hurt Dean before, doing it.

" _You don’t remember, do you? You went missing on my watch. I looked everywhere for you. And when Dad came home…”_

_And Sam had only been able to respond, “I never thought about it like that.”_

* * *

Dean stumbles sleepily into the kitchen at around 7:15AM. 

When his blood-shot eyes catch the sleeves of bread that Sam never picked up off the floor, he halts in the doorway suddenly though, eyes gaining a bit more alertness. His gaze turns on Sam, and there’s a hardness there. Sam doesn’t think Dean is mad at him... but he’s wary. He’s gauging what his little brother is going to say.

Sam doesn’t say anything though, except to gesture with his mug at the pot to Dean’s right. “Coffee?”

Dean’s face still looks stony and guarded, but he wanders over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup.

They both drink it black, though not necessarily out of preference (Sam likes his frilly lattes sometimes, and even though Dean makes fun of him, Sam has seen him sneaking sips). It’s just the most bracing when black, and neither of them usually sleeps well so it helps get them started in the morning.

Dean sits down across from Sam at the table and nurses his mug, slowly sipping at it to wake himself up. 

Sam has a compulsion that he often has to fight—a compulsion to force Dean to “open up” and express his feelings. But he’s found that the times he didn’t push so hard have actually been more successful. Because demanding that Dean talk simply doesn’t work, but he will talk when he feels like it if Sam is patient. Sometimes that’s hard for Sam to remember, and sometimes it’s hard for him to wait or he feels he can’t. But he’s been sitting for a few hours trying to figure out how to approach this discussion, so he’s prepared to wait. 

“Did you move my food?” Dean says eventually, staring into the dredges of his mug.

“Your sandwich had gone bad. I threw it away. Everything else is still where you left it,” Sam replies.

Dean hunches over himself at mention of the sandwich, and his knuckles whiten. 

“The milk is expired, and so is some of the cheese in the fridge,” Sam adds. “But I didn’t touch any of it. It’s exactly where you left it. I promise I won’t throw anything else away. I only threw away your sandwich because it smelled.”

_Experts have found that taking away food from those who hide or hoard food often only perpetuates their behavior, as the compulsion itself is rooted in the idea that food will not be readily available at all times, so the person must store it away for the future. Often this need is rooted in childhood experiences of abuse or neglect, and while the compulsion can fade with time, even into adulthood, some may relapse into hiding or hoarding behaviors during times of severe stress._

Dean looks at Sam with a furrowed brow. 

“What?” Sam asks. 

Dean works his jaw for a moment. “Why are you handling this with kid gloves?”

_Why this time? Why are you being gentle now when..._

* * *

_“What the fuck, Dean? This is fucking disgusting!” Sam complained. He’d caught sight of the containers after he had to reach into the trunk of the car for his bag and noticed a slight, rotted smell. Digging past the blanket they keep in the trunk, he’d then found four take-out bags._

_Dean stepped out of their motel room and into the parking lot just as Sam snapped up one of the containers._

_“Is this your spaghetti from Mario’s? That was last week, Dean! Why would you leave this shit in the car, huh? You’re fucking disgusting, you know that?"_

* * *

“Because...”

_Because I fucked up._

_Because I haven’t been there for you with this._

_Because I never noticed until recently and I promised myself next time... if there was a next time... things would be different._

_I would be different._

“Because we could stand to handle each other’s shit better.”

“It’s not—“ Dean starts, a defensive impulse. But his throat closes up and he stops. Sam would like to pretend he would own up to it if he had an issue like this... wouldn’t try to hide it. But he knows that isn’t true. They’ve both tried to be strong for each other more than they should. Dean’s hands clench and unclench. He looks down hard at the table, face hidden from Sam. 

Sam swallows. “Dean...” he says it as gently as he can. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s completely still for a moment. 

Then his hands start trembling.

It’s almost unnoticeable at first, but gradually it expands to the point that if Dean was holding a glass, he’d slosh its contents all over the floor. 

Neither of them are strangers to this. All the shit they’ve been through means moments of high anxiety. It means nightmares where they scream until their throats are sore. It means hearts that pound a little too hard sometimes. For Sam it means sometimes he shuts down—stops feeling and just... drifts. For Dean it means sometimes he gets mad. He can’t stop feeling rage and he throws things and then goes to his room and locks the door until he’s calm. 

But they don’t talk about it. 

They’ve both mainly preferred not to. 

Sam thinks maybe that should change... and not just for Dean, but for him too. 

 But right now it’s about Dean. Dean whose hands are shaking. 

“I can’t...” Dean begins, and his voice is thick—clogged with emotion. “Can’t stop myself. With Mom and Jack and... and... this new threat with Michael and I-I... I just need something to go right. I need something to be okay.”

Sam nods. “I get that, Dean. I do.” He bites down on the impulse to start empathizing too hard, because that isn’t what Dean needs right now. He just needs to be understood and accepted. “You don’t have to hide this from me... okay?” Sam says. 

Dean looks up at him suddenly, eyes glassy and expression confused. “But... but it’s bad.”

He says it like a child would say it... or like a child would remember being told.

_This is disgusting._

_Why are you doing this?_

_What’s wrong with you?_

_Throw it all away!_

_Don’t eat that._

_Gross._

“It’s not bad, Dean,” Sam replies. “It just... is.”

_It isn’t good... but it’s not bad either. As long as Dean isn’t eating moldy food. As long as he’s just storing it and it isn’t drawing bugs. As long as it helps him feel safe. And punishing him... taking it away... that doesn’t help._

“I’ll even go with you to the grocery store to stock up,” Sam says. “We can buy more cheese to replace what’s gone moldy. I’ll even hide some cans with you. I mean, the bread might have been a bad idea, just because there’s no way we’ll eat it all before it goes moldy...”

“It was on sale,” Dean admits quietly. 

And that—okay, that makes sense too. They needed to make things stretch growing up to keep fed. Hell—sometimes they still do. 

“Well... we’ll just have to eat a lot of toast and meatloaf and sandwiches I guess.” Sam says with a shrug. 

Dean looks at him in surprise mixed with confusion.

“It’s okay, Dean.” Sam says again, softly.

He repeats it as many times as he has to when Dean breaks down.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this thinking it was ready but keep finding typos that I have to go back and edit! My apologies. O_O


End file.
